Let A Serpent Sting Thee Twice
by mooncalf07
Summary: Just because the war is over doesn't mean life is perfect. People are dead, people suffer, people struggle. Hermione Granger knows this best of all. She just never expected the source of her pain to turn up so soon. Draco never saw it coming either.
1. Prologue

Silence reigned supreme in the darkened room. Although dark did not come close to describing it, Draco mused. Could it be a velvety darkness? No, velvet was soft and beautifully smooth to feel. An inky darkness? He considered this for a moment before discarding it. Inky implied fluidity, with changing hues. This was black darkness, the total absence of light. This was the kind of darkness that made small children whimper in fear at the thought of what could be hiding in it, except intensified a thousand times. It was cold, unyielding, unchanging. It was in this darkness that he had lived for the past- how long had it been? It felt like years.

With a huge effort he pulled his mind back, derailing his train of thought from the track leading to the station of insanity. He would not succumb. They might have taken everything else from him: his home, his family, his identity, but he would keep his own mind at least. And in his right state of mind he would not be attempting to poetically describe darkness. Dark was dark, that was all there was to it.

He leaned his head back against the brick wall behind him. The bricks were rough, and crumbled a little to the touch. There were two thousand, nine hundred and forty nine bricks in the cell. He had counted. Fourteen times.

He lowered himself to the hard concrete floor and stretched out his stiff legs in the impenetrable darkness. The room was roughly six feet paces across and five long. He had walked around it countless times. It was the only exercise he could get.

The wall he was leaning against shook a little as something thudded hard against it on the other side. He grimaced, and shifted his position. The idiot in the adjacent cell was trying to knock himself out again, rather than face the silent darkness any longer. Draco had never sunk that low. He had found ways to occupy his time. He would stay sane. He didn't deserve otherwise.

Memories kept him alive. He forced himself to relive each of his mistakes and bad decisions, right up to the point where he made the biggest mistake of his life. He had been all right up until then. He knew he wasn't perfect, but remained confident that his was right cause, and anyone who crossed him deserved whatever they got. That incident had changed him forever. He had discovered that, actually, he was not a good person. He was a weak, cowardly bully who couldn't even face up to his own actions properly.

He brought his shaking hands up, dragging them through his greasy, unkempt hair. He must keep his composure. They must not know what they had done to him. It was no use. He drew his knees up to his chest, and gave himself up to a black pit of depression. A frantic sob clawed its way up his throat, desperate for an outlet to his grief and regret. The Silencing charm forced it brutally back down again.

He dropped his head onto his knees and rocked back and forth. Three months, the Wizengamot had decreed. Thirteen weeks of solitary confinement. Ninety-one days without human contact, except when someone came to renew his Silencing charm. Two thousand, one hundred and eighty-four hours in the utter darkness. One hundred and thirty thousand and forty minutes in absolute silence. Seven million, eight hundred and sixty-two thousand and forty seconds with only his torturous thoughts for company.

Sometimes he wondered if they had forgotten him. It had to have been more than three months since he had been doomed to this. The Silencing charm had twice been renewed. He automatically glanced blindly at where he knew the door was. Its cold steel barred the only way to freedom from this cursed place. Yet his meals, such meagre affairs as they were, appeared twice a day in a corner of the cell.

Boredom is not sufficient description for what he had felt since he had first come here. In a way, the first few days had been the worst. Then, he had yet to learn the tricks of keeping his straying mind on the narrow road of sanity instead of the abyss of madness. Sleep afforded some reprieve, but he was always troubled by haunting nightmares, forcing him to relive that awful moment in time where he had destroyed his life beyond repair.

His head flew up sharply at a sound from outside. Anything which offered a respite from the monotony which dictated his life was a good thing. A tap resounded throughout the room as something hit the impervious door.

Blinding agony pierced his hitherto useless eyes. Instinctively, he buried his head in his arms, protecting his head from the brilliant, searing light. He heard a voice say something roughly to him. When he did not respond strong hands took a grip of steel on his arms and hauled him to his feet. He opened his eyes, squinting against the brightness. His disbelieving legs followed his releaser automatically through the open door and out into the beginning of his new life.


	2. Empty Days

**A/N:** **Thanks a million to my amazing beta, midnightme.**

Hermione ran her hand through her hair distractedly as she stood in the mess that was her office. Her desk, normally immaculate, was strewn with papers and files of all sizes and descriptions. They stood in precarious heaps across its surface, threatening to spill onto the mounting piles of already fallen documents. She sighed, and began the tiresome task of sorting it all out.

"You've got your work cut out there!" an amused voice said from behind her. She turned and threw a dirty look at the man sprawled in the chair opposite hers. He grinned at her and propped his feet up onto his desk, which was likewise littered in junk of all sorts. Bare white walls hemmed them both in. The ceiling was low, contributing to the close, cramped feeling of the office. It was an unlikely setting for two heads of departments.

"You could, of course, give me a hand instead of lounging around doing nothing," she said pointedly. His smile widened and he swung his feet down.

"That, my dear Hermione, would involve work, and as we both know I have a severe allergy to that." She couldn't help it; a small smile forced itself through despite her struggles to the contrary. Quentin could always make her laugh, no matter her mood. And despite his words, he was actually very hard working. How else could he have risen to be head of his department?

He wandered over to her desk, flicking casually through the paperwork burying it. He uncovered a letter, much creased and grubby, as if it had been read many times. His blue eyes skimmed casually through it for the umpteenth time.

"I still can't understand why you would give up a promising career to go teach some little brats," he said reprovingly. "At the rate you're going, you could become Minister of Magic in the next few years!" He said this in a joking tone, but she could sense the seriousness of his words. She straightened up and looked at him. Part of the reason she liked Quentin so much was because he was one of the few people who actually looked her in the eye, and not to one side of her face.

"Minister of Magic? Quentin, use your head; I'm only twenty four!" she told him, snatching the letter back and flinging it into the overflowing wastepaper basket. "Besides, Neville is an old friend of mine. I couldn't let him down by refusing. There are so few capable wizards and witches left, he's the only adult at Hogwarts!"

Quentin raised his eyebrows. "An 'old friend'? Sure there wasn't anything more behind it?" he said teasingly, giving her a sly wink. At this a peal of laughter escaped her lips.

"Neville? You've obviously never met him. I mean, he's a lovely man, but... just no!" she said, shaking her head with another laugh. She surveyed the chaos that was her desk in hopeless despair.

"Why does everyone leave it to my last day here to dump all this paperwork on me? I'll never get through this!" She started on another mountain, wisps of hair flying from her rebellious thatch. Quentin returned to his desk and began to peruse yesterday's Daily Prophet while sipping a steaming mug of coffee. She poked her head suddenly through a gap between two enormous heaps.

"I'm not completely giving up my current work, you know. I'm still going to continue my research into records of ancient spells."

He rolled his eyes theatrically, setting his mug down on an untouched report. "Why bother deciphering some ancient fellow's illegible scrawl just to rediscover some measly spells?"

"I have found some very interesting new spells, some of which had never been heard of before," she retorted indignantly. "I think I'm on the verge of a completely new one. At least, he's been blathering on for pages about this wonderful spell he created. I hope it's better than the last one. A spell to clean toilets is not the most helpful in the battle against evil."

Quentin laughed. "Well, you never know." He picked up his paper and started to read again. He had barely finished the article on the new Minister, Dennis Creevey, before Hermione interrupted him.

"I asked you to find me a slave person for my research. Someone with a bit of willpower, so I can test some of the more advanced spells."

He sighed, folding his Prophet up and dropping it onto the desk. It looked like he wouldn't get a chance to finish the first page at this rate. "First of all, they are not slaves, they are reformers. We are a civilised society. And I say that with a perfectly straight face." He glanced down at the report his mug was resting on, and a mischievous look crossed his face. "Someone strong-willed you want, is it? This strong enough for you?" He tossed the file across the cramped room. She effortlessly caught it with a spell and Levitated it back to her. Her eyebrows rose as she skimmed it. When she had finished, she threw it back to him with a flat stare.

"Fine. I'll need him to be sent to Hogwarts soon. My research needs to continue. And by the way, 'reformers' is a ridiculous title. It sounds like they're someone such as Martin Luther King or Jean Calvin, instead of captured Death Eaters."

His forehead wrinkled in puzzlement. "Martin who?"

"Oh! I'd forgotten you were a pureblood t - or a _linear wizard_, if we're being politically correct here. Martin Luther King was a social reformer — as in he tried to change the way people treated each other. Just someone you learn about in Muggle history," she added as he still looked confused. She had to hand it to him, he had worked really hard to achieve his current position. Purebloods — no, linear wizards - often were treated with dislike and distrust in the new wizarding world, and found it difficult to advance in their careers. After all, the majority of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's followers had been from pureblooded families; naturally, others regarded the remaining purebloods with heavy suspicion.

He shook his head at the intricacies of the Muggle world and returned to the subject of the so-called reformer. "Are you serious about wanting this fellow? He spent three months in solitary confinement for assault of a wizard, for Merlin's sake!"

She nodded emphatically. "And yet he is still apparently sane, showing that he has remarkable mental strength. Just in passing, who was the wizard he attacked?"

John consulted the file in his hand. His face fell as he saw the name. "Terence Thistlewaite."

Hermione stared at him incredulously. "What? But the man is a known pure- linear wizard hater! He's been accused of attacking several linear witches and wizards without provocation. Who in the world assigned him a reformer?"

Quentin leaned back in his chair with his eyes closed, rubbing his temples. As head of the Department for the Rehabilitation of Former Dark Wizards, he was held accountable for this kind of disaster. "I was told that he had earned one for 'services rendered' to the Ministry. It's not my job to question my superiors, so I just did as I was told."

Hermione was nearly speechless at the injustice of it all. "Do you mean to tell me that this reformer was sentenced to three months in solitary confinement based on Thistlewaite's testimony alone?"

He nodded gloomily. "Well, it was obvious he'd been attacked. The reformer had broken his nose before he managed to stun him. However, Thistlewaite claimed it was an unprovoked attack, there was no taunting or abuse on his part." He and Hermione exchanged looks of scepticism. "Anyway, if that's the one you want, I'll arrange to have him shipped to Hogwarts in a few days." He glanced at the clock above the door. "Nearly five o'clock. Tell you what, I'll finish up here for you. St. Mungo's visiting hours end at six, and you were too busy to go at lunch."

She bent down and kissed him lightly on the cheek. "Thanks a million, Quentin. The school term starts tomorrow and I have so much to do before then." Grabbing her cloak, she rushed out the door, waving goodbye at the last second.

Hermione strode through the busy atrium, her head high and cloak billowing out behind her. She kept her gaze straight ahead, and did her best to ignore the stares she was getting from the few visitors to the Ministry. Her footsteps echoed in the nearly empty room, reminding her yet again how few wizards were left in England. The War had killed many, of course, then the coup in the Ministry had wiped out much of the prominent political members of the magical community, and then the Atrocity happened. Now a collapsing economy and complete disorganisation had led to soaring rates of emigration.

A figure kneeling on the floor near the fountain caught her eye. The reformer was wearing robes of such a dull brown colour that she could feel a yawn coming on even as she looked at them. The hair was equally monotonous; it was shorn close to the head and Transfigured to match the robes. Her eyes flickered automatically to the reformer's face, but were instantly repelled. She had come up with that spell herself; anyone trying to look a reformer in the face would find their eyes could not focus, and instead would have to look to one side. It prevented recognition of any reformers, many of whom had enemies who would attack them if they got a chance.

As she waited in the all too short queue for the fireplaces, she scanned the Prophet that she had picked up on her way down. She caught the name Dennis Creevey and she shook her head. She still couldn't believe that someone so young had been elected. He was only about twenty-one! Then again, in the troubled times that now plagued the wizarding world, younger wizards often came to the fore as they were less conventional and set in their ways. She herself was an example of that - head of the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, and she was deeply involved in many other departments as well.

"Hello, Hermione." She turned and saw, to her surprise, the man himself standing behind her.

"Dennis!" she replied, shaking his hand. "Congratulations on becoming Minister. Youngest ever, I believe."

His steel grey eyes regarded her impassively. "Thank you. I hope we'll see a lot of changes in the way things are run now." He nodded to her and continued on his way. She stared after him, and gave an unconscious shiver. He had changed so much from the little boy she had seen and heard about in Hogwarts. It was Colin's death that did it, of course. He had saved Harry's life once, but sacrificed himself in the process. She hadn't seen Dennis for over a year after that, and the changes in him had shocked her when she did. From a hero-worshipping, rather comical young boy, had come a charismatic leader, inspiring the bedraggled remnants of what had once been wizarding Britain to struggle on, in the hopes of regaining some former glory.

A sharp tap on her shoulder shook her from her thoughts. Startled, she turned and saw a short, grey-haired man whom she vaguely recognised from the Department of Magical Transportation. These days, she knew everyone in the Ministry.

"Excuse me, miss, but _some_ of us need to get going, you know." He eyed her fiercely from under caterpillar-like eyebrows. His expression changed as she turned to fully face him.

She realised she was next in line for the fireplaces and hurriedly picked up her things. "I do apologise, just give me a moment."

"What?" He leaned in closer, his face screwed up in concentration. His eyes even flickered to her own for a moment, before drifting back as if drawn by an invisible force to the left side of her face. She stared at him, until it dawned on her that she had forgotten yet again. Even after almost three years, it often slipped her mind.

"Sorry, I'm leaving now," she said slowly, before turning and walking into the fireplace. Emerald flames danced around her as she spoke her address, before whirling her away.

* * *

Several hours later, Hermione surveyed her near-empty apartment with no little satisfaction. Now, all that remained was to pack away her personal possessions, the little that she had.

As she methodically sorted through the few drawers and cupboards in a room, she came across an old photo she hadn't looked at in a long while. Her own, younger, unblemished self waved at her from behind the dust, arm in arm with — her throat tightened — Harry and Ron. She remembered that day, early in sixth year. None of them had known what was ahead of them, thank Merlin. Harry could not have looked so carefree if he had known that in four year's time, he would be brutally murdered in his moment of triumph, just after he had defeated Voldemort. The Death Eater had been mad, insane, and had killed himself directly afterwards, but that had been no consolation for the aching loss she still felt today. As for Ron… _No, I won't think of him._

She lifted her head, looking directly into the mirror that hung on the otherwise bare wall. The face that looked back at her was almost unrecognisable as the same laughing girl in the photo. She scrutinized the image, searching every aspect of her face for changes.

Her hair, of course, was completely different. Tired of its rebellious bushiness, she had long ago decided that it would be much simpler to cut it all off. It was now cropped close to her head, but still thick and prone to bushiness given the slightest chance. Her eyes… they had once been a sparkling brown, full of hope for the future and confident of happiness. Now they were dead, the colour of muddy water, still reddened and swollen from tears she had shed not so long ago. Through these eyes she had seen things she still was reluctant to believe. Her mouth, once eager to smile, rarely curved up in that expression of joy. There were few people now that she could relax sufficiently with for that to happen.

She was conscious, as she made these observations, of her keen avoidance of the one feature of her face that had changed immeasurably. Now she could postpone it no longer. Her probing eyes moved reluctantly to the left side of her face, tracing the long line of the ugly scar, from just above her eyebrow to where it ran off her chin. The scar disfigured her face, pulling her left eye and her mouth downwards, distorting her vision and slurring her speech. It stood out starkly from the rest of her face, which was now pale from lack of time in the open air. Her fingers ran softly around its rough edges.

Quentin once asked her why she had never removed it. Scars had been all too common after the War, but the development of a new healing potion meant that few still carried the marks. She had refused to take it. How could she bear to emerge from the War and the confusion of the years after it unblemished, when Harry was dead and Ron was… _NO!_.

She shook her head like a dog trying to get water out of its ears, but in her case she wanted to be rid of her memories, the ones that still tormented her every moment, waking and sleeping. She was moving on to a new stage in her life; she should accept her losses and get on, still mourning but no longer despairing.

A humourless laugh forced its way out of her tightening throat. Move on? No one with her experiences could. She had tried after the War; she got a new job, several jobs in fact, and immersed herself in them. In only two years, she was head of the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, widely praised for her research into old forgotten spells, and well known for several new charms she had invented. And what had that brought her? No happiness, that was certain. Try as she would, she could not leave her state of mourning for her lost friends.

An Irish acquaintance had once told her that the Irish for 'to separate' was 'scar'. It seemed to strangely suit her own scar. It separated her past life, with happiness and no worries, from the grey, monotonous one she lived today. It symbolised her separation from her old friends, her old life, her old _self_.

With an impatient sigh, she pulled herself away. She couldn't afford the luxury of self-pity and looking back on what she had lost. After the War, she had had some kind of nervous breakdown, or so she was told. She couldn't remember much of those six months. She had left the hospital determined that she would not succumb again. Now, she kept her mind focused on other things, except for that one hour of the day. After that hour, she would let the tears flow freely.

But now was not the time. Rapidly refusing to allow herself to think of anything else but her task, she placed the last of her belongings in the case and buckled it shut. She sat down on the bed and looked around the bared room. _You would expect, after living here for three years, that something of me would have rubbed off in this room_, she mused. But the stark walls gave no sign that any personality had ever dwelt in the room they surrounded. She no longer had the power to impose her personality on anything.

The little watch on her wrist called out the time in its high, reedy voice. With a start, she realised that dinnertime had come and gone. She decided to forego any meal, and simply went to bed. She would need an early start if she wanted to catch the Hogwarts Express in the morning.


	3. White Knuckles

**A/N: Thanks a million to my beta, Keryn!  
**

The wheels of the trolley rattled briskly along the uneven ground as Hermione pushed her luggage towards the platform. People milled about, jostling her as she struggled to steer the vehicle, which seemed to have acquired a mind of its own. To distract herself from the nervousness that always precedes a new job, she tried to discern the Muggles from the magical folk in the crowd. A man in a dark suit, striding along while talking on his mobile phone…almost certainly a Muggle. A scared eleven-year-old, clutching a black kitten in one arm and dragging a large trunk with the other: most likely one of her new students. She studied the girl with interest when a high, piercing voice cut through her like a knife.

"Look at that lady's face, Mummy!"

Hermione froze and stopped dead in her tracks, causing a minor traffic jam. Slowly, she turned her head to see a small, pudgy child regarding her with a mixture of awe and revulsion. Her flustered mother, tottering along in her high heels and business-like suit, gasped in horror and snatched the child's hand.

"Nancy! You don't _say_ things like that! It's not nice!" Her eyes flickered to Hermione, evidently intending to apologise, but instead they too widened at the sight of her face.

"But Mummy—," the child tugged at her hand "—look, Mummy, half her face is gone!" The mother's face was a mask of mortification. Her mouth opened and shut, unable to react to the cruel, destructive words her child so easily threw out.

Nancy hadn't finished yet. "Do you think a tiger tried to eat her, Mummy?" she asked in fascination.

Hermione finally got a grip on herself. She grabbed the trolley and continued on, bumping others out of the way indifferently as her vision blurred with unshed tears. She could still hear the child's voice protesting plaintively at her mother's remonstrations. However, within moments she had recovered her composure. She strode on, the picture of complete self-possession.

Only her whitened knuckles gave any evidence of the emotional turmoil within.

* * *

Draco opened his eyes blearily and immediately had to fight the impulse to shut them again. Dim, dark shapes swam nauseatingly in and out of focus. His stomach heaved, protesting violent outrage to the potion that had been forced down his throat. He closed his eyes once more and lay perfectly still, willing his body to submit to his control. 

After a few moments, his head settled and he began to return to his normal state – or at least what had now become his normal state. He forced his heavy eyelids open and peered around him.

His first impression was that of darkness. Darkness, and walls.

_The cell!_

The walls loomed over him, shutting him in this place of terror and gloom, moving closer, leaning in, enclosing him, ensnaring him,_killing_ him. _No! I won't go back in!_ He thrashed on the floor, struggling against the invisible bonds that held him tightly.

"Hey, Ed! This one's up!" A thin face appeared suddenly in front of Draco's wide, terrified eyes, and he relaxed a little. There were no people in solitary confinement. "Should I give him some more of that stuff?"

"Nah." This voice was older, hoarser. Draco twisted his head, trying to locate the speaker. His eyes, out of practice from so long in disuse, could only dimly make out a shape on one of the boxes. "One thing you'll learn, boy, in this line o' work, is that it never pays to put yourself in danger if you don't have to."

"What d'you mean?" The young fellow on a small box, his knees almost reaching his cheeks. Draco blinked slowly, his vision returning as he looked around him.

"Take them lads, now." Ed indicated Draco with an expansive sweep of a thick hand. "The only reason," he lit his pipe, slipping it in through a gap in his teeth, "the only _reason_ they are here right now is because they committed _'crimes against the state'.b_" He nodded knowledgeably, his pipe wobbling.

"You serious?" whispered the boy in fascination. He edged his box closer. "What sort of things?"

"Now, Mick," Ed said reprovingly, "you don't think they'd be tellin' the likes of us? Have some sense."

Mick's face wrinkled in confusion. "But how do we know they done anythin', then?"

"Well o' course they done _something_, otherwise they wouldn't be reformers, would they? You sayin' our government is just pickin' 'em out randomly?" His voice grew heated, and the pipe fell out of his mouth. He picked it up with stubby fingers, mumbling angrily about the impertinence of youth, lack of respect to elders, and general degradation of moral standards.

"Oh, no, Ed, nothin' like tha'," said Mick quickly, hands spread out in a silent plea for forgiveness. "I was jus' wonderin' what _kind_ of things, y' know, that they done. I know our governments all right. Sure didn't I vote for that Creevey, and never looked back."

"Ah, well," Ed grunted, looking slightly mollified. "Where was I?"

"You was just tellin' me about the things that lot did," Mick supplied encouragingly, jerking his thumb at Draco.

"Oh, yeah. See, after the War, all them Death Eaters was rounded up and executed–"

"Served 'em bloody right," interrupted Mick fervently.

"Yeah, yeah. But anyways, there was still those left as weren't no good. You know who I'm talkin' about. People who'd helped _Him_. Spies. Them that gave money." He spat on the ground in disgust.

"Bleedin' turncoats," Mick agreed.

"So there you have it. That's why we have all them lot around the place." They both turned to stare at Draco.

"Gives me the creeps, a little, the way they just stare and never say nothin'," Mick muttered. "I know they _can't_ talk, and that you can't see their face," he added, seeing the look his elder was giving him. "But it's still weird. You can _feel_ their eyes."

Ed shrugged unconcernedly, and hauled his heavy body to its feet. "I'm off to grab something to eat from the trolley before we start movin'. You want anythin'?" Mick shook his head. "Suit yourself. But the train's leavin' in a few minutes."

_Train_, Draco though. Trolley. The pieces began to come together. Small, wooden rooms. Not rooms: compartments.. Realisation dawned.

_I'm on the Hogwarts Express!_

* * *

"Would you like anything, dear?" asked a cheery voice. 

Hermione didn't lift her head from the book she was perusing. "No, thank you." She listened to the sounds of the trolley wheels' rattling until they died away. Silence descended once more upon the compartment. She set her book down carefully, feeling a strange reluctance to disturb the quiet atmosphere.

Sighing softly, she leaned her forehead against the cool, misty glass. The motion of the train sent vibrations through her skull, blissfully driving away all thought as her head drummed against the window.

Hermione lifted her head at the sound of hesitant footsteps coming from the corridor. Two students walked past, whispering and glancing nervously about them. It was a sign of the times that the sight of them was a surprise. How many students had Neville said there were – was it forty? That seemed about right, from the number she had seen so far on the platform and the train.

She leaned back in her seat, relaxing her stiff posture for once. She had the compartment to herself, thankfully; she didn't think she could have dealt with having to share it with whispering, giggling, goggle-eyed students. Her eyes itched from reading, and she allowed the lids to slide smoothly down. _No harm in a quick rest_, she told herself.

* * *

The train rattled onwards, bumping Draco uncomfortably against the hard wooden planks. He would have groaned in discomfort, but the Silencing Charm prevented even the slightest vocal noise. He contented himself with digging his fingernails into the floorboards until they broke. He was still unable to relax; all his muscles remained tense, nervous. The size of the compartment and the lack of proper light reminded him uncomfortably of his cell. 

The sound of movement from the far corner took him completely by surprise. He started, turning his head with difficulty to peer into its dim depths. He realised that there was another occupant of this carriage, one apparently in the same plight as him. The boy – or at least, he was pretty sure it was male – was obviously only just coming around from whatever potion they had both ingested. He watched as the boy raised his head with its closely cropped brown hair –_like we all have,_ he realised suddenly – and looked straight at him. At least, as far as Draco could tell. The damned spell made it impossible to see any expression or feature. Eyes simply slipped past, as though the area around the face had been cut from visible reality.

_Hogwarts. How ironic._ He could pinpoint the exact moment when his life had started down the track that had led him to where he was now. He hadn't been there since that night on the Astronomy Tower. Leaning back a little, trying to ease his bonds slightly, he could still see every detail in his mind's eye. He had thought, then, that he would never see or do anything as horrible as that day, the day he saw an old man murdered in front of his eyes. Because of him, and what he had done. He smiled humourlessly; how innocent he had been back then. The horrors he had seen and committed since then would make that idealistic sixteen-year-old retch. They were not comfortable memories to live with.

He wondered idly who would be Headmaster, or perhaps Headmistress. _McGonagall? No; Aunt Bellatrix got her two months before the final battle. Flitwick? Sprout?_ He racked his brains, trying to remember what had become of them. _They died in the Atrocity, didn't they? Or did Flitwick escape? No; Draco could remember now. He was one of the last teachers to die._

Whoever it was, it probably wouldn't make much difference. He could now look forward to year upon year of demeaning servitude, probably under some upstart house-elf that he could have bought ten times over back in the day. _Better than the cell,_ a thought whispered. He shuddered in agreement. Anything was better than that.

* * *

Voices rose in excitement and confusion, rousing Hermione from her slumber. She blinked sleepily, for a moment confused as to where she was. The narrow, empty compartment brought it back to her. She stretched, her book slipping from her lap. She picked it up absently, and prepared to leave, shaking her head to remove the cobwebs of sleep. 

The students hushed a little as she stepped from the train. She walked in a pocket of silence among them, with curious whispers. She ignored it out of habit; her attention was now on her once-familiar surroundings. The lake glittered darkly before her eyes, the traditional boats floating on its flat surface. She could almost hear Hagrid's voice: _'Firs'-years, o'er here!'_. But there was no more Hagrid. There was only her.

She turned around sharply, driving the thoughts from her mind. "First-years, over here," she snapped, her voice made taut by painful memories. Roughly twenty students scuttled over. White faces looked up at her with a mixture of awe and fear.

"All others, the carriages are waiting." Hermione gestured at the dark shapes behind her, and out of the corner of her eye saw the thestrals trot around. Gasps echoed from the assembled students, most of whom had their eyes fixed on the skeletal horses. _Of course_, she thought bitterly, _in these days, who hasn't seen death?_

"Come along, come along!" She herded the first years down the path, her robes snagging on the brambles and bushes that now grew there She could feel her old control coming back, or _bossiness_, as Ro–

"I said into the boats! You there, get in!" she snapped.

"I've lost my toad!" the girl wailed. Hermione raised her eyebrows slightly. _So history does repeat itself._

"It will turn up. They always do. Now, on!"

They sailed serenely over the glassy lake, ripples oozing out in their wake. Hermione tried to settle her nerves; taking it out on students would not help. She glanced back at the two students sharing her boat. One cowered back, meeting her stern gaze with large, frightened eyes. The boy, however, had a look of sullen defiance about him. She turned back to look ahead, waiting for the first glimpse of the cave which would lead them to Hogwarts Castle.

She heard a breathed 'Wow,' from behind her as the castle loomed above them. She sat up a little straighter in the prow. Hogwarts, centre of learning, place of memories, site of tragedy. Tiny dots of candlelight studded its dark bulk. Hermione looked away quickly, choosing instead to look at the water. It evoked fewer harrowing memories.

Her own reflection was clearly visible at the back of the boat, sitting ramrod straight, followed by a smaller shape huddled towards the back. Something seemed not to fit; she frowned, feeling her scarred face contort still further. _Why_–

She jerked forward as the boat ground to a halt in the rough sand of the shore. Looking up, she realised they had reached the cave. She led the first-years, whispering nervously, slowly up the winding path. At each step, she grew more convinced that this was a bad idea. Every glance reminded her of happy times, now tinged with pain because she knew what happened later.

Taking a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and strode up to the great wooden doors. As she placed her hand on the rough surface, she tried to think positively. After all, after everything that had happened to her already in her short but traumatic life, what tremendous shocks could teaching bring?

Later on, she would come to think that never had she been as wrong as at that moment.


End file.
